Steph & Dick reunite properly first. By which I mean, they realize they’re both from the future within a few minutes of meeting back up and that it’s different futures right around the same time (hard not to when Steph’s so very, very different now from how Dick ever knew her.)
Dick by that point has his own apartment in Gotham (to aide his “Jason is missing, oh gods, search the whole city!” efforts, and his “don’t let Bruce realize I’m different to avoid being locked up, tested, and lectured about responsible time travel (like he’s one to talk)” ones.) Finally having someplace else to go, Steph strong-arms her mother into going to rehab and moves in with Dick.
The fold-out couch is a queen size and Steph insists on taking it. They still both end up in Dick’s bed most nights, because waking up alone in the dark leaves the last few months feeling so surreal compared to their memories that they need to go check that the other one is there. Steph’s too hypervigilant not to wake up when anyone (even another Bat) enters her space and Dick always feels bad for waking her up, so they both get hot chocolate, Steph walks Dick back to his room (so he doesn’t walk straight into a wall,) and stays to ease his anxiety. Dick wakes up when Steph moves to the side of the bed to check his breathing, but has so much experience soothing his siblings after bad dreams that he just lifts the blanket up on autopilot, allowing Steph to crawl in and feel him alive & well right next to her.
(Dick asks if it was a nightmare or a memory. Steph is silent for a very long moment, before wrapping her arms around him and whispering, “They shot you.” She does not elaborate. He does not ask her to.)
(When Dick wakes Steph up after that, she asks the same thing. Sometimes he’ll talk about it. Sometimes he won’t.)
@ardenrosegarden I think you’ll like this. Non-sexual bedsharing, hurt/comfort. Non-POV character is male, but who he is and all details about the narrator are left intentionally vague. CWs for descriptions of injuries and mentions of previous violence.
Story after cut.
“I tried to warn you.”
“Never said I didn’t believe you.” I stumble over the uneven pavement and grunt in pain. He pauses, adjusts his grip to support me better.
“You knew this would happen.”
“Worth it.”
“You’re lucky they didn’t beat you to death.”
“I did what I had to do.”
I wait for the lecture to start, but it never comes. If he’s angry at me, he’s set it aside. We reach the front steps and he helps me up, lets me lean on him while he opens the door. He’s warm and solid. Unshakable.
Inside, he bolts the door with one hand. “We need to wash your wounds.”
That’s going to hurt. I already hurt. “Don’t think I can do it by myself.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” His voice is unexpectedly kind.
He settles me on the couch in the front room, draws the blinds, helps me out of my coat. I whimper as the motion jars my bruised ribcage and torn muscles. He hushes me and kneels to undo my bootlaces.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
“Hmm?”
“For coming to get me.”
I can’t decipher the look on his face. It’s too warm to be pity.
I lay back and close my eyes. After a moment I hear him in the kitchen, running water, pulling things out of cabinets. I must doze off at some point, because when I open my eyes he’s pulled a stool and a side table up in front of me, with a basin and the big first aid kit. He glances at me apologetically.
“We need to get you out of those clothes.”
He’s right. I stink of sweat and piss and that one asshole’s tobacco juice. I try to sit up and fall back again, whimpering. Now that the adrenaline’s worn off, cold and injury have made my muscles stiff.
“Hush.” His hand brushes my face, carefully avoiding the bruises. The cushions dip as he kneels on the edge of the couch, leaning over me. “You’ll have to forgive me...”
“S’okay.” After what I went through an hour ago, you’d think I’d shy away from letting anyone else put their hands on me. But this is different. He’s on my side. He was always on my side.
We manage to peel off the button-down I’m wearing like a jacket, but under that I’m wearing a t-shirt, and I can’t lift my arms. He fishes in the first aid kit and pulls out the trauma sheers.
“Sorry about this.”
He cuts away my t-shirt and jeans, tossing them in a pile by the door and pulling a blanket over me as he works. Something in the back of my mind frets as he starts on my underwear. My need for medical attention overrules it.
Once I’m naked, he wrings out a rag from the basin and starts examining the cuts and bruises on my face. Strands of my hair are caught in the dried blood. I flinch when he tugs at them. Carefully, he sponges away blood and dirt. The hot water stings, but it helps. He pulls back the blanket a little at a time, washing my body and examining for injuries and evidence of broken bones. My ribs are broken, he says. I’ve got a lot of bruising. As he finishes each section, he covers me again with the blanket.
When I’m more or less clean, he puts his arms behind my shoulders and helps me lay down.
“How does this feel? Can you breathe like this?”
“Mm-hm.” This feels better, but the effort of changing position has me dizzy. “We got any water?”
He steps away, and when he comes back he lifts my head and holds a glass to my lips. I drink down most of it and feel better.
“I got you some ice.” Something crinkles: a gallon bag full of ice cubes. He lays it across my ribs, outside the blanket. I flinch. After a moment the pain subsides a little. A pill bottle rattles and he slides his hand under my head again.
“Here, drink these down.”
I open my eyes a crack. “Are those left over from my wisdom teeth?”
“You know better than me. They were in the back of your cabinet.”
“Ugh. Forgot I had those. Was supposed to get rid of them.”
“Good thing you didn’t. Here, this is the amount the bottle says to take. You’ll heal better if you’re not in so much pain. Believe me,” he adds, and I do. I let him put the pills in my mouth and swallow them with a sip of water. He’s dabbing ointment on my face when the medicine kicks in and I drift away.
When I wake up the icepack is gone, but he’s still there, in an armchair pulled up to the end of the couch, reading a book. He looks up and sees me awake.
“How do you feel?”
“Better.” It’s true; I still feel like I shouldn’t be in one piece, but the pain is mostly in the background now. “I need to pee. Can you- I don’t think I can get there on my own.”
He sets down his book and grabs a second blanket. It takes our combined efforts to get me up off the couch and into a standing position, and it’s still impossible to stand fully upright. He helps me into the hallway, keeping me wrapped in the blankets, and holds the second one up as a screen when I’m finally sitting on the pot. When I’m done, we pause before beginning the return journey.
“Can I make a request?” I mumble against his shoulder.
“Of course.”
“Can I sleep in the bed?”
“Certainly.”
“It’s not too far?”
“Not for me. And I can carry you if need be.” I can hear his smile.
We make it to the bedroom, and he tucks me under the quilt.
“Do you need more medicine?”
“No. I’m good.” Exhaustion is making my vision swim. My hand is sticking out from under the quilt on the side. He takes it in his and rubs circles on the back, gently. The pad of his thumb is rough, calloused.
“You can stay here,” I say. “You don’t have to sleep in the chair.” Or on the couch, which probably still smells like an ass-kicking.
“Are you sure? It seems... improper.”
“Cause I’m naked?”
He nods. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“Can’t be uncomfortable if I’m asleep.” My eyelids keep drooping. “Don’t have to if you don’t want to. I don’t wanna be alone...”
He leans over me and kisses my forehead. He smells nice. “Then I’ll stay.”
He crawls under the quilt on the other side, leaving the sheet between me and him. Close enough to feel each other’s presence, distant enough to maintain a boundary. If I were in better shape I would roll onto my side, mold myself against his body. It hurts to move, so I stay put. Instead, he folds his frame around me, warm and solid, one arm beneath his head as he watches over me. I feel his chest rise and fall as he breathes. Will he let me lie this close to him when I’m healed? I hope so. I sink into the warmth, and sleep.
Sam and Dean need to crash in a motel, there is one bed. They share like they did when they were kids.
On AO3.
Ships: none, ya nasties
Warnings: not really
~~~~~~~~~
They had been driving for a while already when the storm hit and hit hard. Both of the brothers knew that they had to get into a motel as soon as possible if it went on like this, so they stopped at the first motel they saw with a vacant board outside. Inside they found out that there was only one room left, so they took it without any questions. Anything was better than facing the storm raging outside. They got to their room and opened the door to find only one bed. “What the hell.” Dean said.
Sam rubbed his face and said: “Well, I am ready to crash, so I’m claiming the bed and you can pick ground or sharing.”
Then he started to strip and slipped under the covers in just his boxers and undershirt. Dean was still standing by the door, contemplating his options. He could just sleep on the ground, but lately his back had been killing him, seems like years of living in a car and crappy motels were catching up, and sleeping on the ground probably wasn’t a smart idea, but sharing the bed with Sam? Dean didn’t know.
He weighed the good against the bad. He would have to share with Mr. Gigantor, but it would feel like when they were kids and he was quite cold and it would be a bed and when he thought about it, the comforts of being close sounded quite nice, especially when he didn’t have to embarrass himself by asking. He whispered: “Screw it” and stripped to his boxers and undershirt too.
He quietly slipped under the covers hoping that Sam had already been taken by sleep. It seemed to be that way and he let out a relieved sigh as he got comfortable on the bed. He had never been taken by sleep so easily and he was thankful for that.
~
Sam is woken in the middle of the night by trashing and whimpering next to him. Groggily he looks over and finds Dean obviously fighting off a nightmare. There’s layer of sweat on his forehead and he is frowning. Sam knows better than to wake Dean, but he isn’t just going to lay there and let Dean be woken up by the monsters in his head. Sam knows how badly Dean needs his rest. So, he made up his mind and scooted closer to his brother.
Dean was on his back, but turned on his side when he felt Sams presence next to him. Sam used that movement to get closer and force Dean to use him as a pillow. With a little coaxing and soothing word it works and soon Sams left side is under a slowly breathing Dean, his head resting on Sams shoulder, nightmare forgotten through comfort.
Sam stayed up for a few more minutes just watching his brother sleep. He knows that this is probably pretty freaky, but he doesn’t really care. The lines of normal sibling behavior are long crossed between them. He looks at the man who never gave up on him and gave up everything for him. It was crazy how much one person could give. Sam heart constricted when he thought about it, Dean didn’t deserve it, but he could never convince Dean of that. All he could do was be there for him and love him.
His left arm was wrapped around the sleeping form next to him and he lowered it to rub Deans back. The motion soothed the last wrinkles out of Deans forehead and soon the brothers were both fast asleep.
In the morning Sam would wake first and untangle himself from Dean and after that they would both pretend like nothing happened, but for now they just enjoyed each others closeness and they rest it gave them.
I just got back from taking 20 high school students on a college tour of LA. We stayed in a nice hotel but the boys were all three to a room and it only had two queens. I asked one of the boys how they divided up the beds, if anyone slept on the floor. He looked at me and said “Its no big deal. We just said no homo and Jake and I shared a bed. Its not weird or anything.”
I don’t know if I should be offended or impressed.
“O how he loves you, darling boy. Oh how, like always, he invents the monsters underneath the bed to get you to sleep next to him, chest to chest or chest to back, the covers drawn around you in an act of faith against the night.” Richard Siken
For the hundredth time, Sam rolls over in bed. He’s been trying to sleep for four hours, miserable because of his cold and the endless brooding thoughts in his mind. The sobs, however, take him by surprise. Suddenly he feels his heart sink, his eyes fill with tears and it’s not long before his breathing speeds up.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, trying to calm down as silently as he can. Dean is sleeping in the bed just next to his and he has already woken him up several times these past couple of weeks. Every time, his brother jumped out of his bed to hold him against his chest, pressing him to tell him what was wrong. He can’t let him do that again, especially without telling him what’s going on. And how can he possibly tell him that he is done, has sent his last college application today and will probably be gone in less than a year? He can’t do that to him. Even if he could, he still wouldn’t have the words. Sam sometimes wonders if the right words for this exist. But Dean is starting to worry, he can see it. He’s been staying at home every night for some days instead of hooking up with girls in the neighborhood, to keep an eye on him.
The other side of his bed creaks and lowers.
“Alright.” Dean’s voice is soft and his body is warm when he presses his chest against Sam’s back. “Come here,” he adds, encircling his waist with one arm, his other hand stroking his hair.
“You gonna catch my cold,” Sam hiccups between two sobs.
“I don’t fucking care, Sam.” There is no animosity or urgency in Dean’s tone, compared to the other times they found themselves in this kind of situation. It’s almost like he got used to it. Oh, he still cares, Sam can tell by the tender way he holds him. But it’s become more of a habit than anything. He’s so pathetic, even his brother has stopped trying.
“Sshh, Sammy, stop racking your brains like that,” Dean murmurs, like he can hear the pounding in Sam’s head that comes from too much thinking. “Just let go.”
But Sam can’t. He’s taken inside a vicious circle of self-depreciation, fear, sadness and guilt. He thinks he just wants it to be over.
That’s when Dean starts to hum Hey Jude. Sam tries to concentrate more on the melody than on the thought that he might never hear Dean sing this song ever again. Strangely, it works; not completely but enough for the cries to stop.
“You know there’s no monster under your bed, right? And that I’m gonna protect you anyway, no matter what?”
“Yeah, I know.”
No, there’s no monster under Sam’s bed anymore. This time, he is the monster. He’s the one who is going to rip Dean apart, again. He will never tell it to his brother, but he wasn’t asleep when Dean whispered in his hair, a few nights ago, that seeing him like this broke his heart. He wonders if it is what he is meant to be in the end: neither a hunter nor a lawyer, but the guy who tears Dean’s heart apart, over and over again.
He is a monster and he doesn’t deserve to sleep in his brother’s arms, not anymore.
He tries to free himself from Dean’s embrace but he holds him tight and doesn’t let go.
“Don’t push me away, Sam.” The distress in his voice makes Sam stop immediately. “Don’t push me away, that’s all I ask. Please.”
Sam can do nothing but lean back against him. He can’t deny him that. And if it’s the only thing Dean asks for, so be it.
